Spring 1992, and Other Stories
by puppetierin
Summary: After the fall of the Soviet Union, Russia pays China a visit. Also, a collection point for many of my drabbles.
1. Spring 1992

When China opens the door to a chilly Sunday afternoon, he's not particularly surprised to see Russia standing there, thin cheeks bloody with the cold. It's not the first time, and it's likely not to be the last, so China takes this occasion with more than a little of his usual disdain.

"You look pathetic, aru," he says, folding his hands in his sleeves and taking in his bedraggled neighbor's appearance. "And I am amazed that you dragged yourself out of bed to come and bother me so soon. Half your body collapses and I am still not going to become 'one with Russia.'"

Russia's amethyst eyes (overlarge in their sunken face) blink, as if the thought hadn't even occurred to him. His coat hangs loosely on his slumped shoulders, his shaggy hair has lost any trace of a shine, and one arm is suspended in a sling around his neck. A flat box is cradled against his chest, wrapped in dull paper and a worn ribbon.

"Nyet, I... did not want to ask that of you. Could I... come in?"

"No. You can stay right here and say whatever it is and be on your way." As the tall man's eyes widen, China realizes how much they look like healing bruises: dark, lighter around the edges, and yet still... injuries.

"I can say it out here, too," he says, more to himself than to China. "Hold these?" China takes the box with a grain of hesitation, and watches with increasing bewilderment as Russia takes a step back, touches his hand to his forehead and shoulders, and kneels before him in the snow, touching his forehead to the ground.

"I ask your forgiveness," he said, voice just barely caught in his scarf. "If ever I have trespassed against or offended you." With a slight wheeze, he hefts himself to his feet, leaning down once again and kissing China's cheeks three times, one hand resting on his forearm. "Forgive me, Wang Yao."

He turns and departs, leaving China standing dumbly in the threshold, the package still in his hands.

"Those are for you," he calls over his shoulder. "They are bliny. Eat them before the sun goes down."

"Wait, aru! I - ah-"

He half-turns, glances back. "I cannot stay. I am going to the west, starting with Eesti. I will bring you pussy willows soon, da? Then, we will talk."

He disappears, leaving only the prints of his boots and his forehead in the snow. China eventually goes inside and sits next to his cold tea and stares at the package.

"A stupid, crazy thing to do, in his condition," he concludes to himself, resolving to put the curious matter out of his mind. In spite of this, though, he smiles for the rest of the afternoon.

* * *

><p>I don't own the characters or APH, etc. Written for lahica-loca on dA.<p>

Too tired to write notes about this now. Questions, concerns, leave me a comment.


	2. untitled

A flash of blue eyes. Awkwardly slicked-back hair. The sound of carefully measured footsteps.

Everywhere Italy is, he sees Holy Rome in the corners of his eyes. Even in the house he now lives in with Germany, the vague reveries coalesce into nightmares that have everything and nothing to do with that little boy...

Sometimes, he's waiting at the crest of a hill for the return of Holy Rome, the promises of his speedy return still echoing in his ears. But then he curls up against the four winds and dies with the grass, because Holy Rome's hair is gold, like the color of the sun, and he's gone and taken it with him…

…gone…

…away…

Other times, Holy Rome is waiting in a field of flowers, hands outstretched and voice calling him over. The world is beautiful, as it is in Italy's memories_,_ but behind Holy Rome a storm is brewing, clawing its way across the sky. Holy Rome shouts for Italy to join him, so intent on communication that he doesn't notice the clouds reach for him with lightning-tipped talons. Italy screams and screams, trying to get him to see the destruction heading _right for him_— (Just before the tempest snatches him up, Holy Rome gives up shouting, face filled with passion, and turns like a lamb into the fatal embrace of the hurricane.)

Italy's taken to haunting Germany's bedroom, not because he is attracted to the solemn country, but because the presence of another person keeps his dreams rooted firmly in the present. Romano and Germany eventually gave up asking _why_, and for that, Italy is grateful. (How could he explain to his dear dear friend and his brother: he wakes up crying otherwise?)

Sometimes, it breaks Italy's heart how similar Germany and Holy Rome are. And even when he just stares, stares for minutes at Germany, and even when he accepts the teasing that he's an airhead and declares (for all their sakes except for his own) "Pasta!", well, that's when he feels like the heaviness of his thoughts and dreams could crush him.

Yes, it's so much easier to be laughing…

* * *

><p>I do not own Hetalia or any affiliated characters.<p>

I love taking happy characters and giving them a depressing side. More than that, I don't really like canon!Italy, so this is an attempt to make him more palatable. Not one of my best.

(I wrote this before the train wreck that was MFeSvH, and janked one of the dream sequences for use in that. I prefer this one.)


	3. House and Dreams

His dreams are made of the tides that wash upon his rocky beaches. Sometimes, the waters run clear and cold; sometimes, the waves come in choked with the debris of the past and warm with blood. It's impossible to predict or prevent the ocean, so Sweden simply lets the sea bend and twist him (as his nation, he is subject to the whim of the waters), and yet always he trusts it to return him to his starting point.

His dreams are about creating things. First, the tools; and then, using those tools, he builds himself a house, filled with empty rooms and sighs. He sits on the front stoop and looks away and out for something with which to fill the house. Time and matter are constantly rearranging themselves, though, into so many millions of intricate patterns. He merely has to reach out his hand and take the pattern and pour it into the foundations. (He is a country after, all, and these are his dreams.)

The tide comes in and sweeps him away as he waits.

The next time Sweden opens his eyes, the world is a kaleidoscope of evening colors and soft blue wallpaper. He's lying on the couch at home, several blankets tucked carefully around his large frame. He stares up into the fog vaguely, uncertain as to why the world does not resolve itself into tangible forms and objects. He remains this way until he yawns and raises his hand to rub at one teary eye. His glasses are gone.

He gropes about blindly, not finding them on the coffee table or the immediate floor. His only remaining option, then, is to feel his way to his bedroom and find his spare pair. Navigating the place at the best of times can be quite worrying – Sealand often leaves his toys or moves the furniture in pursuit of the perfect pillow fort – so it doesn't really come as a surprise when Sweden steps on a Lego block (a gift from that accursed Dane) and then trips over a small construction site.

He stumbles forward, half-crashing into a door jamb and falling flat on his face into the kitchen. There's a gasp and a clatter to his right; Sweden, not entirely sure who it might be, remains completely still until he hears the voice.

"Berwald! Are you–?"

Tino.

He pulls himself up to show that he's mostly unharmed, only to have his forehead collide sharply with Finland's chin. Both recoil with identical shattered grunts of pain.

"…Bit my tongue," says Finland, rubbing his jaw. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah. Sorry."

"Don't be. I'm the one who had to take your glasses. …Hold still while I get them, okay?" He hears the sounds of a cupboard door opening and rummaging before a pair of gentle hands slip the frames onto his face. Sweden blinks once and Finland comes into focus, both hands outstretched and ready to hoist him up. He accepts their help and waits for further explanation.

"Sealand took your glasses when you were napping," says Finland, gesturing towards the fallen chair. "He thought that since you and America both wear glasses, it would help him become more recognized. Coffee? It's only reheated, though."

Sweden collapses into the straightened chair and runs a weary hand through his hair. "Please."

"It's been a lot more exciting, since he started living with us, huh?" Finland hands over the coffee and plops into the seat opposite Sweden.

"Mhmm."

"I kind of like it. He reminds me of Den, but less crazy."

"Hmm."

"You don't mind having him, do you?"

"No."

"Oh, good."

They subside into comfortable silence as the coffee drops in their mugs and the evening grows later. Sweden eventually checks his watch and goes outside to ring the bell signaling bedtime. Soon thereafter, Sealand comes barreling out of the darkness to hug Sweden around the knees and then drag him into the house by the hand, shouting with laughter.

The house of accidents, of fallen-over chairs, of little construction sites all abandoned, of reheated coffee and warm blankets.

The house of dreams.

* * *

><p><strong>Classes have started, so expect infrequent updates. Though I still have a folderful and several notebooks worth of scraps. <strong>

**(oh yeah, don't own Hetalia, characters, etc)**

**The first time I attempted something with the Nordics. I hope I got it right, but I like the chemistry anyway. **

**Leave a comment, if you can! Thanks for reading!**


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